


Popcorn

by BeginToFray



Series: (Issues) We've got the kind of love it takes to solve them. [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 03:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16338776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeginToFray/pseuds/BeginToFray
Summary: This is a companion piece to my other story, Digits. This is what happens when Eve storms out and Villanelle is left to stew...





	Popcorn

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be harder to write from Villanelle's perspective, but found it flowed surprisingly easily. Probably best not to delve too deep into that revelation... 
> 
> Anyway, the first half is pretty heavy on the insight, light on the dialogue (there isn't any) but it picks up after that. Enjoy! Or don't!

Villanelle had remained in more or less the same position for some time after Eve had stormed out. She was now lying back in the bed, still naked apart from the sheets she had untangled and pulled up to cover her hips. She was upset. Confused and upset.

Why does Eve want to know all that shit? Villanelle doesn’t want to talk about it. Eve is light and warmth and that stuff is just dark and angry and it hurts and the two shouldn’t mix. They don’t need to mix. Villanelle is Villanelle now, not Oksana.

Oksana was that skinny little thing, always bruised and cold and so angry, with ratty, straggly brown hair and clothes that don’t fit and ribs that stick out like fingers. Villanelle has curves, she has golden honey hair and beautiful clothes and she speaks many languages and can make women scream in all of them. Mostly in pleasure. Sometimes in pain.

Eve doesn’t need to know Oksana’s father would beat the shit out of her and kick her and half-starve her to save money for his beloved booze. She doesn’t need to know that Oksana did have a sister once, one who didn’t make it past the age of three, whose rattling coughs she could still sometimes hear. And she certainly didn’t need to know about the pet rabbit that her mother had given her before leaving. Her pet rabbit that had been her very first kill; that satisfying snap of the neck that followed a particularly severe lashing from her hefting, hairy father. No, Eve wouldn’t like to hear those things.

With Anna it had been different. Anna had known from the start. Had been given a file with all of Oksana’s misdemeanours laid out like a banquet, her desperate home life detailed in a chapter all its own, a little offering of hors d’oeuvres before the real feast. Oksana hadn’t had to tell Anna anything. She knew about the classmate she stabbed. She knew where the fires had been set and the first shot had been fired and into whom. And she wanted to help. She wanted to take poor little Oksana and look after her, and mother her and make her all better. But Oksana had never wanted a mother. Mothers leave.

And Villanelle didn’t want a mother either. She didn’t want Eve to take on Anna’s role. She didn’t want to be cared for like a child. She wanted equality. Yes, she wanted to care for Eve and have that care returned. But she wanted to be desired not pitied. Oksana hadn’t been able to tell the difference between being desired and being loved and perhaps that was part of the problem. But Villanelle knew the difference and she knew what she wanted. Or, at least, she had thought she knew that she wanted.

Villanelle didn’t want to tell Eve about Oksana. She wanted to forget Oksana. Oksana was stupid and let herself get hurt. Villanelle wanted to tell Eve happy things. Like, about that tiny, beautiful café she had found in Salzburg. Eve would love it there. About the opera she saw at Le Palais Garnier when she first moved to Paris. About the time she watched the sunrise from a hill overlooking Athens. She could leave out the part where she slit a woman’s throat and watched her bleed out as the sun rose. Eve may not like that bit, though Villanelle felt it had added to the atmosphere.

But Eve was asking questions and Villanelle wouldn’t lie but she wouldn’t answer them either. Really Eve hadn’t left her any choice, she’d had to attempt to divert, to distract rather than discuss. Eve wanted more than Villanelle could give in terms of information. In terms of everything else then there was nothing Villanelle wouldn’t give to Eve. When she first realised that, Villanelle had been a bit alarmed. She was a lone wolf. She literally hunted and killed in order to eat, in order to adorn her body and her home with beautiful things. But now, now when she was shopping she bought as many items for Eve as she bought for herself. Now, when she returned from a job she didn’t return to an empty apartment and a fridge full of Moët. Now, she returned to Eve’s house and to Eve. She hadn’t bought anything for the house yet though.

Villanelle sat up in bed. The bed that he built. That moustachioed man who had Eve first. Who had her for years. Who had her in this bed. She threw the sheets off her body and stood up from the bed, throwing it a filthy look as if the man who built it would somehow be able to feel her scowl.

“We really do need a new bed.” Villanelle muttered to herself.

Perhaps she should go shopping. Eve would probably be gone for hours now and she may not want to see Villanelle when she returned. Perhaps Villanelle should make herself scarce, check into a hotel somewhere, wait for Eve to realise she missed her and call her back. Yes, that was how they worked. Villanelle would disappear for a while. It would serve Eve right for asking all those stupid questions, for refusing to accept Villanelle… for calling her Oksana.

That’s what she’d do. And maybe on the way she could check in with her handler, see if there was anything coming up in London, or even Paris, that could take the edge off for her. It had been nearly three weeks since her last kill and her skin was beginning to prickle with pent up energy.

With that decided, Villanelle dug through the drawers Eve had set aside for her in the dressing table and pulled out a pair of underwear. They weren’t any of her favourites, they were boring and they weren’t sexy. But Eve hadn’t wanted to have sex with her anyway, so she put them on. She found a pair of woollen socks. Not her usual style, but they were necessary in an English winter, and in the boots that she had taken to wearing to avoid slipping on sleek pavements.

Wait. How would Eve call her home? Eve was right. She didn’t have her phone number. Nobody had her phone number. It was withheld even when she called her handler. Villanelle hummed. She grabbed a sweater from the floor, it was an ugly one of Eve’s but at least it didn’t have a shirt attached, and when she pulled it over her head, it smelt like Eve. She made her way into Eve’s office and tore a scrap of paper off an envelope and wrote her number onto it with the red pen she found on the desk. She signed it with an X, just because. She returned to the bedroom, straightened out the sheets and left the note on Eve’s pillow.

Eve’s pillow? On Eve’s side? Does that mean that Villanelle has been sleeping on that man’s side? Ugh. They really, really, needed a new bed. She could buy it. Maybe that’s what she would go and do now. That would be a good apology. A good gesture. Eve would like that, wouldn’t she? And she could get a throw for it too. A silk one like the one she had adored in Tuscany, the one that she had bought for her bed in Paris. Her bed in Paris where… No. Perhaps not the throw. New sheets though, definitely. And a new bed. That would be nice. She could go and do that now, and then check into a hotel and wait for Eve to find her, to call her phone and ask her to come home. Then they could have make up sex. But first, Villanelle was hungry. She should probably have a sandwich before she leaves.

In the kitchen, and still just in a sweater, socks and underwear, Villanelle prepared herself a huge sandwich with something of everything she could find in the fridge. It was quite a novelty to find something other than champagne in there. Villanelle liked food. A lot. She liked choosing it and buying it and preparing it for herself and Eve. In Paris, she didn’t keep food in her apartment. She was away so much, she would invariably come home to mould. Champagne didn’t go mouldy.

She leant against the kitchen counter and chewed thoughtfully, cheeks bulging. This was all quite grown up really, living here with Eve. Having a side of the bed and someone to cook for. She thought she would be repulsed by the idea, but something inside her swelled at the thought of it. Some hidden part of her buzzed with happiness. Perhaps they should choose a new bed together. Villanelle would pay for it though, because she liked paying for things. But she would let Eve help choose it. As long as she didn’t choose something boring and ugly. And maybe she shouldn’t go to a hotel after all. Maybe she would wait for Eve to come back. Eve would probably prefer that. And Villanelle could watch a movie.

Villanelle crammed the last massive mouthful of sandwich into her mouth and left the kitchen. In the hallway something was different. Villanelle was trained to spot things like this, and something was missing. It took her only a minute to realise what it was. Her boots were gone. Eve must look ridiculous in them. Villanelle chuckled to herself and she hopped up the stairs to retrieve her phone number from the bed. Eve should still have that. They could send each other messages while Eve was at work or Villanelle was scoping out her next hit. That would be nice.

In the living room, after a quick diversion to the kitchen for popcorn, Villanelle found that Eve’s copy of _Love, Actually_ was still in the DVD drive. She settled in to wait, hoping that Eve would be a bit less angry when she got home. Or that if she was angry, maybe they could have angry sex. Villanelle could definitely do that. Though really she preferred to be nice to Eve when they had sex. She hoped either way that Eve would let them have sex. Villanelle nodded to herself and then sank into watching her movie.

It was some time later that Villanelle was aware of footsteps on the garden path. They were heavier footsteps than Eve’s usual shuffling and for a moment Villanelle tensed, her hand flexing almost subconsciously, before she remembered that Eve had taken Villanelle’s own boots as she had flown out of the door earlier. Sure enough, there was a key in the lock and Villanelle relaxed, remembered the scrap of paper still clasped in her hand and retracted it into the sleeve of Eve’s sweater.

Eve stomped into the living room; the boots, one size too big for her, reverberated on the wood floors. Villanelle kept her gaze on the screen and her new favourite movie. With her, Eve brought a gust of cold air from outside and the hairs on Villanelle’s bare legs stood to attention. There was something else as well, a faint whiff of cigarette smoke surprised Villanelle as she identified it. Interesting. Eve dropped her keys onto the coffee table and Villanelle chanced a sideways glance at the older woman, hoping to gauge what mood she was now in.

“You’re still here.”

She nearly hadn’t been, but Eve didn’t need to know that.

“You took my shoes.”

Yes, that was a simpler response. And honest.

“You have about twenty pairs of shoes here.”

Villanelle shrugged. That was true. There was no hiding it. The first shopping trip alone had brought the total up to 12, plus a couple of pairs she had bought for Eve but was yet to see her wearing. She still lamented the loss of one pair left behind in Paris. Heeled brogues. Beautiful leather. She had asphyxiated a crooked politician in those. Her brain hummed at the memory of that kill, and she threw a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Sweet and salted, a favourite combination.

Eve was coming towards her now, and Villanelle watched her. Eve seemed to have calmed, appeared a little defeated, and somewhat tired, but there was no denying the increasingly familiar warmth that settled in Villanelle’s stomach at the sight of her. Though she did look a bit insane in that outfit, and the knowledge that the sweater belonged to that hairy-lipped man sent a shot of fire through Villanelle’s veins. She had thought of at least seven ways she would like to kill him, it would be fun, but she knew Eve would not like it. She took a breath and diverted her attention back to the television as Eve sat next to her, forced to make contact due to Villanelle’s position in the middle of the sofa. She definitely smelt like cigarette smoke.

Villanelle rustled the paper in her hand as it re-emerged from her sleeve. She unfolded it in one hand and passed it to the woman next to her.

“What’s this?”

“My phone number.”

Villanelle watched as Eve studied the numbers, even ran a finger over them.

“Thank-you, Oksana.”

Villanelle turned to face her. Hearing that name unsettled her, as it always did. It didn’t belong to her, but Eve seemed to like it and she wanted Eve to like her too. Villanelle made no comment, only nodded, and then turned away. She felt Eve shift beside her, lean up and place a kiss on her cheek with slightly wind-chilled lips. Villanelle smiled and Eve rested the side of her head against Villanelle’s shoulder.

“I’m sort of surprised you even have a phone.” Eve said quietly

“What? Of course I have a phone. How would I watch movies on trains? I spend a lot of time on trains, Eve.”

Eve laughed. Sometimes Villanelle said things that were so completely ordinary that it was easy to forget she was in the pay of what was essentially a multi-national assassin agency.

“Anyway, now you can send me sexy pictures. I’d like that.” Villanelle stated, her eyes brightening as if the idea had just occurred to her.

“Oh, I bet you would,” Eve replied wryly, “But can you really imagine me sneaking out of the office to send you a quick snap of my boobs?”

“I can certainly imagine it. You have lovely boobs.” Villanelle nodded, over pronouncing the words ‘boobs’ in a way that let Eve know she was mocking her for the use of it. Eve simply looked at her until Villanelle relented.

“Fine.” Villanelle huffed, “Give me your number. I will send you pictures of my tits. You love my tits, I always see you looking at them. Even before we first fucked you used to—”

“You know,” Eve cut across whatever embarrassing observation Villanelle was about to air, regardless of how truthful she’s sure it would be, “Sending dirty pictures is not the only reason to exchange phone numbers.”

“No?” Villanelle asked, raising her eyebrows at Eve as if she would need some severe convincing on that.

“No. What if I wanted to let you know I was going to be late home from work one evening? Or, what if you were making dinner and wanted to know if I liked egg plant?”

“Those are very boring reasons. Why would you want to be late home from work when you’re coming home to me?” Villanelle asked smugly.

“Well, obviously I would far rather be at home with you, but sometimes—”

“And I know you like egg plant. You liked that Moussaka I made you.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So I will send you pictures of my tits.” Villanelle decided, smiling wildly. Eve sighed.

“Not while I’m at work please.”

Villanelle shrugged noncommittally. And Eve made a mental note not to check her phone around any co-workers.

“You smell like smoke, you know?”

“Oh. Well, I…”

“I quite like it, but it’s not very good for you, Eve.”

“No. I know. I hadn’t smoked in years, and I didn’t even finish it. It’s just earlier, after we… I was upset, I needed—”

“Do you taste like smoke too?” Villanelle was making a habit of interrupting her this evening, but Eve didn’t know where she had been going with that thought, so she let it slide.

“Um. Probably, I guess.”

Villanelle hummed.

“I would like to kiss you now. I think we should brush our teeth, and you should take that sweater off, and then we should watch the rest of this movie and make out.”

Eve chuckled. There were certain phrases that had snuck into Villanelle’s vernacular from avid watching of American movies that she found slightly jarring; ‘making out’ was one of them. Eve hadn’t ‘made out’ with anyone since college.

“You are laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you, darling. I’m laughing at the idea of me making out with anyone.”

“You don’t want to kiss me?”

“Of course I want to kiss you. God, I wanted to kiss you the minute I met you, though I didn’t realise at the time. It’s just that making out is what teenagers do.”

“Oh. Well, OK.” Villanelle filed that information away. Don’t say ‘making out’. “Go and brush your teeth and change and then I want to kiss you.”

“You really don’t like this sweater, do you?”

“No. I don’t like the sweater.”

“Because it makes me look fat?”

Villanelle had forgotten she’d said that. Hearing it come out of Eve’s mouth made her realise what a cruel thing it had been to say. And not true either, which was even worse. Villanelle did not lie to Eve.

“It does not make you look fat. It makes you look small and cosy. But it is his and you are mine, and I don’t like it. I shouldn’t have said you look fat when you don’t.”

“Oh.”

‘You are mine.’ It’s a very possessive thing to hear and Eve is startled by its effect on her. God, she really shouldn’t like that. The idea of being Villanelle’s should not be so appealing to her. And yet…

“Maybe you should give me a sweater of yours to wear then.” Eve teased.

Villanelle shot off the sofa, knocking the popcorn to the floor in her haste, and skidded across the floor in her socks.

“I know which one!” She shouted as Eve listened to her take the stairs three at a time.

“Of course you do,” Eve mumbled as she bent to start picking up popcorn kernels from the floor.


End file.
